The Linnet's Wings The Sorrow - Page 119

1918-2018 Reaper Lesley Timms Autumn’s slanting rays warm contented fingers Nestling baby onions into soft, receptive earth: Elemental joy for these season-weathered hands; Annual comfort for a soul soothed by the cyclical. But when our unquestioning Rock, Wheeling eternally on its preordained carousel, Has whirled through Winter, spun through Spring, Will I again greet Summer with familiar eyes, Lulled by self-sedating denial? Or will Nature’s ceaseless cull Have snatched from close by, Finally turning my averted face round To stare death straight in the eye? While steadfast roots anchor growing bulbs, Will my once stable world writhe in turmoil; Blinkered trust in constancy destroyed? Rain and grieving tears alike will swell these onions. They’ll yield, freely, to Nature’s dictate. Harvested, then ragged holes will pit their ground. Will deep hollows have been gouged into my heart By the perennial rhythm of the Reaper? 119